Chris Offutt - Out of the Woods - Stories

Gerald opened his front door at dawn, wearing only a quickly drawn-on pair of jeans. His wife’s four brothers stood in the ground fog that filtered along the ridge. The oldest brother had become family spokesman after the father’s death, and Gerald waited for him to speak. The mother was still boss but everything had to filter through a man.

“It’s Ory,” the oldest one said. “He got shot and is in the hospital. Somebody’s got to fetch him.”

The brothers looked at Gerald from below their eyebrows. Going after Ory wasn’t a chore anyone wanted, and Gerald was new to the family, married to Kay, the only sister. He still needed to prove his worth. If he brought Ory home, maybe they’d cut the barrier that kept him on the edge of things, like he was nothing but a third or fourth cousin.

“Where’s he at?” Gerald said.

“Wahoo, Nebraska. Ory said it would take two days but was easy to find.”

“My rig won’t make it.”

“You can take the old Ford. She’ll run till doomsday.”

“Who shot him?”

The oldest brother flashed him a mean look. The rest were back to looking down, as if they were carpenters gauging the amount of linoleum needed for a job.

“Some woman,” the oldest brother said.

Kay began to cry. The brothers left and Gerald sat on the couch beside Kay. She hugged her knees and bit a thumbnail, gasping in a throaty way that reminded him of the sounds she made in bed. He reached for her. She shrugged from his hand, then allowed his touch.

“Him leaving never made sense,” Kay said. “He hadn’t done nothing and nobody was after him. He didn’t tell a soul why. Just up and went. Be ten years come fall.”

“I’ll go get him,” Gerald whispered.

“You don’t care to?”

“No.”

“For my brothers?”

“For you.”

She snuggled against him, her damp face pressed to his neck. She was tiny inside the robe. He opened the front and she pushed against his leg.

The next day he left in the black pickup. Gerald was thirty years old and had never been out of the county. He wore a suit that was snug in the shoulders, and short in the legs. It had belonged to his father, but he didn’t figure anyone would notice. He wished he owned a tie. The dogwoods and redbuds had already lost their spring color. The air was hot. Four hours later he was in Indiana, where the land was flat as a playing card. There was nowhere to hide, no safety at all. Even the sun was too bright. He didn’t understand how Ory could stand such open ground.

Illinois was equally flat but with less green to it. Gerald realized that he was driving through a season, watching spring in reverse. The Illinois dirt was black as manure and he pulled over to examine it. The earth was moist and rich. It smelled of life. He let it trickle between his fingers, thinking of the hard clay dirt at home. He decided to stop and get some of this good dirt on the way back.

He drove all day and crossed the Mississippi River at night. At a rest area, he unrolled a blanket and lay down. He was cold. Above him the stars were strewn across the sky. They seemed to be moving down, threatening to press him against the ground. Something bright cut across the night, and he thought someone had shot at him until he realized it was a shooting star. The hills at home blocked so much sky that he’d never seen one. He watched the vast prairie night until fading into sleep.

The eerie light of a flatland dawn woke him early. The sun wasn’t visible and the world seemed to glow from within. There were no birds to hear. He could see his breath. He drove west and left the interstate at Wahoo and found the hospital easily. A nurse took him to a small room. Everything was white and the walls seemed to emit a low hum. He couldn’t place the smell. A man came into the room wearing a white coat. He spoke with an accent.

“I am Dr. Gupte. You are with the family of Mr. Gowan?”

“You’re the doctor?”

“Yes.” He sighed and opened a manila folder. “I’m afraid Mr. Gowan has left us.”

“Done out, huh. Where to?”

“I’m afraid that is not the circumstance.”

“It’s not.”

“No, he had a pulmonary thromboembolism.”

“Is that American?”

“I’m afraid you will excuse me.”

Dr. Gupte left the room and Gerald wondered who the funny little man really was. He pulled open a drawer. Inside was a small mallet with a triangular head made of rubber, perfect for nothing. A cop came in the room, and Gerald slowly closed the drawer.

“I’m Sheriff Johnson. You the next of kin?”

“Gerald Bolin.”

They watched each other in the tiny room under the artificial light. Gerald didn’t like cops. They got to carry a gun, drive fast, and fight. Anybody else got thrown in the pokey for doing the same thing.

“Dr. Gupte asked me to come in,” the sheriff said.

“He really is a doctor?”

“He’s from Pakistan.”

“Run out of your own, huh.”

“Look, Mr. Bolin. Your brother-in-law got a blood clot that went to his lung. He died from it.”

Gerald cleared his throat, scanned the floor for somewhere to spit, then swallowed it. He rubbed his eyes.

“Say he’s dead.”

The sheriff nodded.

“That damn doctor ain’t worth his hide, is he.”

“There’s some things to clear up.”

The sheriff drove Gerald to his office, a small space with a desk and two chairs. A calendar hung from the wall. The room reminded Gerald of the hospital without the smell.

“Ory was on a tear,” the sheriff said. “He was drinking and wrecked his car at his girlfriend’s house. She wouldn’t let him in and he broke the door open. They started arguing and she shot him.”

“Then he got a blood clot.”

The sheriff nodded.

“Did he not have a job?” Gerald said.

“No. And there’s some money problems. He went through a fence and hit a light post. He owed back rent at a rooming house. Plus the hospital.”

“Car bad hurt?”

“It runs.”

“Did he own anything?”

“Clothes, a knife, suitcase, a little twenty-two pistol, a pair of boots, and a radio.”

“What all does he owe?”

“Twelve hundred dollars.”

Gerald walked to the window. He thought of his wife and all her family waiting for him. They’d given him a little money, but he’d need it for gas on the ride back.

“Can I see her?” he said.

“Who?”

“The woman that shot him.”

The sheriff drove him a few blocks to a tan building made of stone. Near the eaves were narrow slits to let light in. They went through heavy doors into a common room with a TV set and a pay phone. Four cells formed one wall. A woman sat on a bunk in one of the cells, reading a magazine. She wore an orange jumpsuit that was too big for her.

“Melanie,” the sheriff said. “You have a visitor. Ory’s brother-in-law.”

The sheriff left and Gerald stared through the bars. Her hair was dark purple. One side was long, the other shaved. Each ear had several small gold hoops in a row that reminded Gerald of a guide for a harness. A gold ring pierced her left nostril. She had a black eye. He wanted to watch her for a long time, but looked at his boots instead.

“Hidy,” he said.

She rolled the magazine into a tube and held it to her good eye, looking at Gerald.

“I come for Ory,” Gerald said, “but he’s died on me. Just thought I’d talk to you a minute.”